


Seven Minute Death

by missMARGARITAschuyler (blasphemyincarnate)



Series: write like you’re running out of time - hamilton drabbles [3]
Category: Hamilton - Fandom, Hamilton - Miranda
Genre: Angst, Canon Era, Dead Characters, Established Relationship, F/M, Historical Inaccuracy, M/M, Remniscing, Romance, Sacrifice, duel, either hamilton thinks very fast, or they’re counting really slowly, ten duel commandments, weird time, ”he aims his pistol at the skyWAIT”
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-07-12
Updated: 2018-07-12
Packaged: 2019-06-09 06:55:31
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Major Character Death
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,092
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/15261867
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/blasphemyincarnate/pseuds/missMARGARITAschuyler
Summary: They’re counting and his lips are moving but all he can really think about is ten different people who changed him.





	Seven Minute Death

“Start your count,” Nathanael Pendleton announced. Alexander took a deep breath and started counting.

_One._

His mother was so, so beautiful, even as she died. She was frail and grey and sickly but all Alexander could remember was that she was beautiful. Brave and beautiful even when his father left, even when his brother faded out of his life. Even after she was dead. Rachel Faucette Buck deserved the world, and Alexander mourned the fact that all she’d gotten was a runaway and an unshakable illness.

_Two._

John Laurens died in some South Carolinian field 22 years ago, alone and rotting and empty. Had it really been 22 years? It felt like longer. It felt like a million years that Alexander hadn’t had his best friend, his maybe-something-more (he wouldn’t forget stolen kisses at Valley Forge or the heat of another body pressed against him or soft hair his fingers tangled in), at his side. Maybe it was more. Maybe time was a illusion and maybe Burr wouldn’t shoot and maybe Eliza wouldn’t be left all alone in a big house filled with bad memories. 

_Three._

When Alexander Hamilton first came to America, he had no one. Hercules Mulligan took him in and let him stay and Alexander would forever be grateful for that. “Sorry, old friend. I didn’t mean to leave so soon,” he whispered under his breath before the next step. Hercules was alone now. John was dead (21 years, 321 days and counting) and Lafayette was off in France and Alexander himself was going to die soon anyways.

_Four._

Lafayette. Alexander sorely missed his friend and also regretted not helping more during their revolution. America couldn’t take the strain, but he had money, he could’ve helped somehow. He could only hope that taking Georges in during his time in America could make up for the millions of wrongs Alexander had cost Lafayette. He would never have said anything - the Marquis was too kind for that - but it had to have hurt being abandoned. God, Alexander hated himself in that moment.

_Five._

Even Angelica did more than him, arranging that escape attempt. Angelica... bold, brave, stunning Angelica. Would she cry for him? Would she stay strong for Eliza? He didn’t know. A selfish part of him hoped she’d cry. It was selfish. He might not even die (he would. He and Burr ran too deep for anyone to come out unscathed), he might still survive. Maybes and mights and selfish thoughts. It felt like that was all he could produce recently.

_Six._

George Washington was dead. Not a day went by where Alexander wished he had the old man around to go to for advice, for a drink, for a mentor. A stand-in father, because no matter how many times Alexander said “don’t call me son”, it didn’t change anything. He loved the man like a father and George loved him like a son. Simple, straightforward, the truth. Alexander took another step.

_Seven._

Philip. Poor, sweet Philip. Philip who dueled a drunk man and was shot on the count of seven because of it, Philip who was just following bad advice, Philip who cried while dying, Philip who said sorry over and over and over. Philip who was dead because of his Icarus father. Alexander bit back a sob. At least they’d see each other soon - maybe he could apologize and maybe Philip would accept it and maybe it wouldn’t be so bad.

_Eight._

”Will Jefferson cry?” Alexander whispered to himself. He probably wouldn’t. He’d probably throw a party, invite all the important people who hated Hamilton. Black tie, of course. The thought made Alexander smile. Even through all this, at least he could rely on Jefferson to be consistent in his hate.

_Nine._

Eliza. Dear, sweet Eliza. She deserved the world and more and what did Alexander do? He dug a trench to fight the war against himself under her bar. He finally realized that. He didn’t even try to stop the tears from falling. Eliza would have to run a house by herself now. Her and six children, after Philip died and Angelica lost her mind. At least she’d have Angelica’s namesake. Alexander knew he could always rely on the eldest Schuyler to take care of her sister, even if he didn’t. Especially if he didn’t. After the Reynolds pamphlet, she’d come to chew him out for hurting his sister. He deserved it, he knew he did. But it felt like more than Angelica. It felt like a million spirits were in the room - his family, John, Washington, Jefferson, everyone he knew, there to scream at him. Angelica had that kind of power. Eliza would be safe with her, and that thought was more comforting than anything as Alexander whirled around to face the bullet, pistol aimed for the sky. 

_Ten._

Aaron Burr stared him down and time seemed to slow. The bullet spiraling towards him. The rising sun. The smell of the forest, the rushing of the river. Burr’s cold eyes. The last thing he’d ever see? Maybe. Depending on how bad the other man’s aim was. Would he die now or live in agony? Who knew. Burr’s eyes scared him. They were cold, cold. Thoughts jumping all over the place, he heard a second crack. Had he fired? Where did he fire? The sky, hopefully. Burr didn’t fall so it must’ve been the sky. Good.

Alexander barely felt the bullet or the ground or anything as he fell backwards. The sky began to fade into white. He was vaguely aware of being set up in someone’s home, of talking, of Eliza and Angelica at his side. But all he could really see was that pale pale blue of the sky and another voice in his ears (not his own, he didn’t know what he was saying. Maybe he was telling Eliza he loved her. That’d be nice.) “Well, Hamilton, it’s been too long. You got old,” John Laurens said cheerfully, though his voice was thick with emotion. Or maybe it wasn’t. Maybe it wasn’t even there and Alexander was hallucinating sounds because he was dying. That was more likely. “I’ll give you some time, dear boy. We’re waiting - me and your mom and Philip and Washington. Come join us, it’s nice.”

The thought that they were waiting was comforting. Comforting enough that he finally heard himself talk as he slipped away. “I love you, Eliza.” Those were nice last words. Comforting. Story worthy.

On July 12th, 1804, Alexander Hamilton breathed his last and died.

...

...

_”call it.”_

**Author's Note:**

> I manually counted the days for John’s death thing. I felt that this was important to share
> 
> .-.


End file.
